As oblivious as music makes me feel, and as beautiful as it makes everything seem, itís just a man-made accessory of human nature. Iíll never forgive them for harvesting this mental malfunction, this brand of the industrial era.
ďIím going to have to ask you to leave, sir.Ē
It amuses me how he believes that I can actually respond to him. I was manufactured into the life of a musical patron, and if he thinks that for one moment I could refuse my creatorÖthen he obviously needs a new modem. I always play my role because, simply put, itís a life or death matter. If somehow they realized that Iím capable of more than what I was programmed for, theyíd sweep my hard drive, completely erasing my existence. The struggle ending.
I canít let them win so I continue appearing to be fixated on the television screen, which happens to be featuring my most-liked musical group. When they turn the screen off, I am them prompted to promote this group to the public. I purchase the cd and the merchandise, then I work the streets.
With each new day I feel the need to disrupt the system, but they empower me. They always do. I love my creator because I am supposed to. Thatís one virus I donít have the knowledge to resist.
The television screen turned off. I must now whore this groupÖitís this odd feeling, an electrical current. If I resist itís animosity, but if I perform, oh, itís euphoria. Life is a struggle.